kid.â
Will waits for the machine to pour him a ginger beer, and then takes it upstairs. The second level of the Terrace car has a vaulted glass ceiling, giving a panoramic view. There are only a few people here, maybe because itâs a bit chilly. A man writes a letter on an elegant table that folds down from the wall. At the back of the car, a door leads to the sizable terrace. Will steps out and leans against the brass railing.
The train, heâs surprised to see, has actually pulled ahead without his even noticing. All the first-class cars are now out of the station, to give the second-class passengers a chance to board from the platform.
He supposes the Boundless will have to pull ahead again for the third-class passengers too. And then thereâs the colonists, who donât even get to use the station platform. From his vantage point he can see beyond the station building, where the gravel sidings are thronged with humbly dressed passengers carrying odd, tattered suitcases and sagging boxes and bundled crying babies. Willâs used to seeing them in Halifax. Every week ships bring them to Pier 21 from all over the world.
All around him in the vast railyards, more freight cars and baggage cars are being shunted about and readied to join the Boundless as it edges forward bit by bit.
Will chews on his pencil meditatively, then fishes out his sketchbook. Itâs a beautiful slim thing, brand-new for the trip. The pages are thick enough for watercolorsâbut mostly he just likes to sketch with pencil.
He spots a boy standing atop an old rusted boxcar, waving. And for a moment Will feels like heâs waving at himself across time. Before he was rich, he was poor. And just three years ago he lived in a Winnipeg rooming house that backed onto the rail yards.
He doesnât miss their old apartment, with its splintered, cold floors, its mean windows, and the hallway smell of cabbage and wet sock. But he often thinks about what Van Horne said to him at Farewell Station. About how you need a good story, one of your very own.
That day, in the mountains, he was given a story, and a grand one at that. He felt then like his life was about to properly startâthat heâd finally have adventures of his own, maybe with his father. But then almost right away his story got derailed and he was just watching his fatherâs life trundle merrily along the tracks.
After the avalanche Mr. Van Horne promoted Willâs father to engineer of the Maritime Line. Within the week they were movingânot out West as planned but back East, beyond Winnipeg, to Halifax. Their new apartment was clean and bright and spacious. Shiny store-bought furniture stood beside their shabby beds, tables, and chairs.
It was a big promotion, and Willâs father said it was Cornelius Van Horneâs way of saying thank you for saving his life. But it soon became clear that the rail baron wasnât done with James Everett. Van Horne said he showed unusual promise. Before long Willâs father was promoted again, to assistant regional manager of the Maritime Line.
After that they moved into their first house, not far from Point Pleasant Park. It had a garden that belonged only to them. Willâs shoes got shinier; his clothes got more buttons and fastened more tightly around his neck. He stopped going to the local public school and started at a small private academy.
Will liked that. He wasnât so embarrassed to be good at his studies. But he never felt like he fit in properly with the sons and daughters of wealthy businessmen and politicians. He stayed on the fringes.
Nonetheless there was an art teacher there who encouraged him and gave him extra lessons once a week after school. Drawing changed from being a hobby to a passion.
At home they got a cook and a housemaid. His parents began entertaining their new friends and going out to social events around the city. His mother seemed to slip into her new life as